Sorcerer's Creed
by Lord Raine
Summary: In the bleak darkness of the future, all hope seems lost. But in the depths of Azkaban, memories are found that will turn the tide. The war for the magical world was lost. The war for humanity is about to begin. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.
1. Chapter 1

Sorcerer's Creed

Chapter 1

Written By: Lord Raine

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**Disclaimer: If you don't have jazz hands, you don't have a soul. Also, I don't own this.**

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It's been ten years. Ten long, long years.

Across the land, a darkness has fallen. You would have thought there would have been some great clash. There was not. You might have imagined it would have been obvious. It was not. In the beginning, they denied there was anything wrong at all. By the time he moved openly, it was already too late. Dumbledore's counter-plan was flawless. Perfect.

It still didn't work.

Someone was helping him. Someone, somewhere. An enemy we did not know, with strength we did not understand. You cannot fight what you do not understand.

It's been ten long, long years since the darkness fell. And the world doesn't even know. But I've come to understand the truth. The truth is, the darkness fell a long, long time ago. It's just that only a precious, precious few knew.

They locked me away. 'Public Undesireable Number One.' My friends, 'pacified.' My allies, vanished into the maw of a war none of us understood. A war that I did not get to participate in. They thought I would weaken here. Wither away. Die. By all rights, I should have. I'd like to say it's to my credit that I did not. But it is not.

I was always weak against the Dementors. Always. Dumbledore and Lupin thought it was because of my past, that the things I had experienced in life were worse than what most saw in their nightmares. I never really agreed, though. I felt it was something deeper than that. I still don't really know.

When they threw me in here, they pulled on me. Pulled on my memories, dragging up horror after horror, memory after memory. There were so many Dementors, always outside, always_ there._ More than I had known existed. Stronger than I had thought possible. Happy, sad, horrible, wonderful, blood-soaked, all my memories were pulled. But then, something happened. Something broke. The memories became sharper, clearer, more vivid. But these memories, I did not remember them. Names I never knew, faces I had never seen. Places I had never been. People I had never killed.

At first, it was vague. Misty, smoky, distant, incoherent, like a fever dream. But as time went on, it became clearer, sharper. Time. Does time even mean anything? I've been here for thousands of years, haven't I? I can't remember. No, it's been only a hundred, hasn't it?

I learned the truth. The darkness hadn't fallen. It was already covering the land. We didn't lose the war. The war was lost a long, long time ago.

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Nothing but killing them.

I will not cry. I ran out of tears a long time ago. I will not run. I ran out of fear a long time ago. I will not despair. I ran out of sorrow a long time ago.

I'm empty. Which is good. That's exactly what I need to be. An empty vessel can be filled to the brim. Erasmus told me that, once. That a man needed to make himself empty, so God could fill him with purpose.

I was emptied. And now I am full.

* * *

The bitter winds of the North Sea howled and whipped across the face of the massive obsidian obelisk that was Azkaban, jagged sharp claws tearing at the tiny windows and sucking away the warmth with a ravenous hunger. High, high atop the structure, on the very highest detention floor, there was the maximum security block. A recent addition, relatively speaking, proposed by the latest regime and installed by Azkaban's new management. Less than fifty cells were packed together, more vaults than prison cells, and guarded around the clock by over a dozen-score Dementors. Every single vault was currently vacant. Every single vault, save one.

A figure sat against the far wall of his vault, heedless of the wind screaming across the window. Grime and dirt covered his nearly naked body, giving ghastly pale skin a mockery of a tan. A thick, unkempt black beard hung from his face, and long, filthy hair covered the man's head, but it was swept aside at the front by the wind, revealing a jagged pink scar slashed across his forehead, sharp in contrast to his complexion.

Etched crudely into the walls, floor, and even the ceiling, there were symbols. Some as small as a fingernail, others the size of two grown hands placed side-by-side. Some where old and worn, covered in grime and filth and barely distinguishable from the natural lines in the walls. Others were fresh and stood out stark against the dark stone. But they were all the same. An upward pointing spade-shaped arrow, like a compass or a pair of callipers, and beneath, an embellished curve closing up the opening.

Sharp, emerald green eyes that seemed to glow with a faint luminescence in the dim light snapped open as the horrific, soul-numbing cold began to fade. With a harsh creak, the massive vault door slowly swung open for the first time in over a decade.

Slowly, legs that had not walked in years bent and twisted. The man put a hand out, steadying himself, and stood up to his full six foot height. With a steadiness that defied a decade of atrophy and disuse, he took one step forward, and then another. Any normal man would have died long, long ago. Any normal man could not have taken a single step. But this man was not normal. He was a wizard, built of the same constitution as the great figures of myth and lore. He was a sorcerer born.

Carefully, he placed a hand on the frame of the door, and pulled himself through.

Not a Dementor in sight.

Harry Potter's eyes burned in the darkness of the hallway, and his lips cracked as they slowly curved up.

* * *

"Are you sure zis is ze best course of action?" a smooth, masculine voice said with a faintly French accent.

"There is no other way. We couldn't get the passkeys to his cell. We're lucky to have even gotten the touchstone. The only way through is to take everything offline."

"Zat will open up _all _ze cells, though. Every block."

"And trip all the alarms too, but unless you fancy eighteen hours of cursebreaking..."

"True. We do not 'ave that kind of time."

The two figures, one in dusty brown robes and the other in rich red, pressed their hands onto two different spots on a large bank of stone, too far apart for a single man to attempt. Though nothing visibly changed, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, and both men knew that dozens of alarms had just been set off, both in Azkaban and in the Ministry itself.

Without wasting any time, they started walking across the security reception area towards the far stairs, ignoring the dozens of bleeding bodies strewn across the floor.

"And what if he iz gone when we get zere? We just opened ze doors."

"He's been in there for ten years."

"He 'az done more impossible things, if Dumbledore's journals are to be believed."

"Then we can only hope that Albus-"

"Y-you-" a man gasped, blood pooling around him from the stump of his severed arm as he struggled to sit up. "That-that's impossible! You... you're dead! Nicolas Fla-"

A flash of green light cut him off and his head fell back, eyes vacant and empty. The red robed man didn't even break his stride.

* * *

Bare feet pounded against the dark stone, taking the stairs two at a time. Down was not an option. Down lay rocks and stone, endless corridors and an army of guards. Up. Up was the way. He was near the top. Centuries of stalking, fleeing, and fighting had ingrained into him the urgent need. He needed to go higher.

_'I know the truth now. I've seen it. I have nothing left to give, but everything. I have nothing left to lose, because they took it all away. Do you understand?'_

Rounding the corner, a pair of men loomed out of the darkness, black robes with frozen, emotionless faces. Harry spun, hair flying as his elbow sunk into one of the guards necks with a harsh snap, dropping him and sending his mask flying. Smoothly sidestepping a blast of green light from his companion, he lunged forwards. His left hand shot out like a serpent, crashing into the Death Eater's face and collapsing his nose with a fleshy crunch. Before the man could even register the pain, Harry's other hand shot upwards in a backhanded uppercut, rattling his brain and robbing him of consciousness.

One more floor, one more flight of stairs.

_'I'm empty now. Because that's what I needed to become. All the pain, all the regret, all the sorrow, all the fear. It was drawn out of me, teardrop by teardrop. I was empty, and could be filled. Filled with the creed.'_

The doors to the upper barracks exploded with the force of a bomb. A red light was pulsating along the entire length of the room, and the harsh whine of goblin alarms filled the air. Dozens of Death Eater guards who had been mobilizing were caught completely unawares, some with their pants literally down. A hurricane was amongst them.

Harry tore through the room like a man possessed, ignoring the screeching of the alarms and shoving confused and panicking guards aside. He had made it over halfway across before anyone had even realized what was happening.

A half-dressed man shouted in the din, raising his wand, only to have a comrade with his back to Harry deliberately shoved into him, knocking both men into one of the giant fireplaces that lined the walls between each bed. Another Death Eater knelt in the center walkway, buckling his shoes. He started at the shouts and explosive retort and turned towards the door, only for Harry to step on his back and vault over the central table like a gazelle, snatching a dagger stuck into a loaf of bread as he went.

A purple beam of light shot at him from his left, swinging wide and causing one of the bunks to explode into shrapnel, peppering the chaos with raining debris. Another Death Eater, fully dressed and with a crimson mask covering the top half of his face, stepped confidently out of the confusion, raising his wand. Harry lunged at him in a burst of speed even as his lips began to move, raising his dagger in a reverse grip and slashing clean across the man's neck, opening his throat and tearing his hood. The man crumpled gurgling, and Harry plucked his wand from loose fingers before he had even hit the ground.

With a sweeping gesture of his new wand, the group of Death Eaters in front of him flew backwards towards the entrance, crashing into beds, chairs, and other Death Eaters. The way clear, the door at the far end of the barracks exploded into cinders as the roar of confusion turned to anger behind him.

_'Filled to the brim. Overflowing. Mine cup runneth over. They will not stop me. They couldn't stop me when I hunted their order across Europa and the Holy Land, the Far East and the Colonies, and they will not stop me now. I will not falter, because I know that the truth is that nothing is true. I will not hesitate, because I know that everything is permitted. That is the creed of war. The creed of doing what must be done. **My **creed.'_

Harry sprinted across the massive expanse of the tilted roof, his legs pumping smoothly and his feet slapping against the rain-slicked obsidian stone as the fury of the North Sea screamed around him. Bolts and beams of multicolored light shot past him, colored every shade of death and destruction. He didn't break stride. His eyes were locked on the highest point on the entire structure. The entire roof was slanted to one side, raising the far corner of the diamond up higher than the rest. The proverbial peak.

Distant screams and shouts erupted behind him, the sounds of pursuit and anger changing to the sounds of battle and panic. Sparing a glance behind him, Harry saw two figures chasing after him across the rooftops from the smoking remains of another door, firing behind them as they ran.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except hunting down every last member of the order and wiping them out. Genocide. Standing and fighting against an army of hired help was pointless. He had learned that many times over. Hydra could never be slain by standing and fighting the heads.

He stopped, and looked out across the North Sea from the highest point of the tallest object in hundreds of miles. For an instant, he savored the view, beautiful as it always was at these heights. A seemingly infinite expanse of raging seas and howling storm stretched out before him, sheets of driving rain plunging down from on high and bolts of lightning arcing across the skies and into the sea. It was as though the angels of Heaven had declared war upon Poseidon and his ilk, as though the floodgates of the world had been cast open at his feet. His toes curled around the two edges that met at the point of the apex, and standing astride the prison fortress with his hair whipping wildly in the winds, he spread his arms wide and rapturous. Dagger in the left hand and wand in the right, he exalted in the power of the storm as it sang its song of fury, a Christ nailed to the wrathful sky.

_'I'm not afraid anymore.'_

He leapt, arms held out, and dove down from the heights, a form as flawless as an eagle's strike. The air tore at him and the rain battered him, but his dive was controlled, straight and true. Faster and faster he plunged, further and further out from the massive structure he fell, past the rocky jutting cliffside and towards the yawning sea. Closer and closer the leering skull of death loomed, but Harry stared into it unflinchingly, green eyes burning in the darkness.

Mere feet from the surface, a crack like a gunshot rang out, and Harry Potter was gone, leaving only a shockwave of ripples behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorcerer's Creed

Chapter 2

Written by: Lord Raine

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**Disclaimer: In Soviet Russia, fic doesn't own you, comrade.**

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The shadows of two men, one garbed in dusty brown robes and the other a set of deep red, deftly slipped between the trees. It was an ancient forest in the closing chapters of of autumn, untouched by the march of modern man, and the two interlopers slipped smoothly between the shadows of the giants around them, wary and quiet.

"Are you certain zat he came here? Of all ze places he could 'ave run?"

The man in the crimson cloak glanced at his companion, and then back at their surroundings. His eyes were distant and unfocused, as though he was looking at something beyond what was there, but his steps were still true, and he did not stumble or falter.

"Yes. He was here. But. . . I do not see him leaving. Strange."

The man in brown robes snorted softly.

"He 'aze no reason to linger. Why stay?"

The crimson man knelt and spread his fingers wide over the decaying loam of the forest floor.

"That's just it. I do not believe he did."

"Deception, then? Did he cover ze tracks he left behind?"

The crimson-robed man softly brushed some freshly fallen leaves away. He smiled, and held up what he had found. It was a feather, in the same sense that a king's chalice was a cup. Redder than the richest rubies and with a delicate lattice that would make gold itself seem dim by comparison, it seemed to shine faintly in the twilight with it's own luminescence, and was warm to the touch. The man twirled it slightly between thumb and forefinger, and a faint sound was heard on the breeze, a distant echo of something he could not quite identify that that stirred his heart and warmed his bones.

"More like an unexpected encounter, I would say. It seems as though Albus had planned even for this eventuality."

"We must find them. Before zey are found themselves. Dumbledore said his skills were impeccable, but zere is only so much one man can do. If zey catch him. . . it iz unacceptable."

"I agree. Time is of the essence. Let us depart from this place."

A pair of cracks sounded through the forest, and the men were gone.

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A bedraggled, filthy, half-naked man walked down the cobbled street of Godric's Hollow, a magnificent glowing bird perched on his shoulder. Snow fell softly through the night air, but neither man nor bird seemed to notice. The man had suffered through the very teeth of the North Sea, and didn't even feel cold. The bird, by contrast, was untouched by the weather, the flakes of snow evaporating before they ever reached it's plumage.

They would have made a truly fantastic sight, had any been present to see it.

None were.

Godric's Hollow had once been a proud place, a village of secrets and shadows. Many magical families of old blood and older magic had called it home, living alongside one another and their nonmagical brethren. The Dumbledores and the Bagshots. The Abbotts and the Wrights. The Potters and the Peverells. It had been a place a legendary brother had once called home. It had been a place where an infant with a destiny had bested a wicked Lord of Magic. It had been there when crowns had been forged and castles built, it itself founded upon far older ruins, and it had weathered war and darkness in equal measure.

No more.

The lights in the houses were dark. The few streetlights that still worked were dim and choked with the dust and grim of the outdoors, casting dirty pools of wan light. The sidewalks, the road, the backpaths. All of it was unbroken white. Not a footprint in sight, not a single wheel track or drag mark. Many windows were broken. The shops were boarded up. The pub was wrecked, evidence of a vicious struggle having taken place. Sharp eyes could still see the splatters of damage caused by spellfire. Far fewer wizards, though, would have recognized the tiny, worn craters of bullet impacts scattered across the face and sidewalk, all originating from outside the building.

The man approached the village square, bare feet padding silently through the layer of snow. There, in the very center of Godric's Hollow, was an obelisk. On it was carved the names of the people from this village who had died in the first and second world wars. As he walked closer, the obelisk shimmered, and faded away. In it's place was another, larger monument. It was a statue of a family; a man, a woman, and an infant child. The man and woman were sitting down and looking at the baby, who was cradled in his mother's arms. Snow had covered the upper parts of the monument, spreading a blanket across their laps, but even the paintbrush of oncoming winter was not enough to hide the damage. Half of the father's face was missing, shorn off with a clean edge that was wholly unnatural, and the mother's chest had been mutilated by an impact, shattering her bosom and nearly shearing one of her arms off. Only the child had escaped relatively unscathed, it's cherubic face burbling happily up at it's disfigured parents.

At the feet of the statues was what was left of an inscription. Small parts of it were still partially legible, but most of it was gone, torn out of the base in great chunks and pieces.

The man looked at the damaged inscription and narrowed his eyes, concentrating. Faintly glowing splotches on the bare stone became visible, splatters that rain had washed away years ago but that his eyes could still see.

Blood.

People had fought here. People had died here.

The man bowed his head and closed his eyes. The phoenix on his shoulder let out a soft cry, a quiet dirge to the forgotten who had stood and fallen in that place. The snow drifted down, and the town was quiet as a grave.

He turned, and started walking down one of the branching paths away from the square. Scattered here and there along the way was more damage, more ruin. More evidence of a battle that had been lost before it had ever even begun. He could see the splatters of blood and the harried footprints beneath the snow, and could almost hear the screams and shouts echoing in the silence of the night. A woman, indistinct and wraithlike, ran out of the middle distance, stumbling on her skirts, mouth open in a silent scream. Something struck her a blow from behind and she fell, her back a ruin. Another wraith calmly walked into view, it's face masked. The man watched with quiet interest as the second wraith raised an assault rifle and emptied it into the back of the woman's head in a silent barrage, not stopping until the clip had run empty. Strangely enough, the phoenix had also turned to watch, and it's dark eyes seemed sorrowful.

The man took a right into the residential area, and walked down the sidewalk to the side of the road. His head was bowed, and one hand was gripping the top of the dividing brick wall as he went, following it like a guiding rail. All around him, he saw death. Wraiths of witches, wizards, and muggles alike, running away from unseen attackers. The few brave souls that stood to fight were cut down, riddled with bullets or blasted to pieces with spellfire, all in absolute silence. Menacing shapes flitted through the far alleys and between the trees behind the houses, and with quiet detachment the man realized that the victims were being herded towards the village square.

The brick wall transitioned to stone as he walked into the oldest part of the village, and the wraith of a child ran past him, arms outstretched and face bloody.

Suddenly, he stopped. Without looking, he felt it, carved so faintly into the stone that if you were looking at it, you would have never noticed it. Only touch gave it away.

He rubbed a thumb over it gently. He knew that shape. It was the same shape that had been carved by his own fingers a thousand times across his cell, and a thousandfold more in his dreams. It was an upward pointing arrow, like a compass or a pair of calipers, and beneath, an embellished curve closing up the opening. It was a symbol of defiance and rebellion against a quiet tyranny. A symbol of those who sought the truth, and died to protect those who were ignorant of it.

The silence was so intense that he could actually hear the gentle hush of the snow falling. Slowly, he turned his head, and looked.

He was standing in front of a home, too large to be called a house but too small to be considered a mansion or estate. The stone of it's walls was old, as old as any he had seen in the village. Half of the house looked whole and intact, though like all the others it was dark and and fallen into disrepair. The other half, however, was an abject ruin. The walls had buckled outwards, nearly causing a collapse, and the roof near the second chimney had been blown completely off. The front door was a dozen yards from where it was supposed to be, prone and forlorn in the front lawn, and every single window was gone, burst outwards by some intense force.

It was clear, even to an untrained observer, that some sort of explosion had taken place on the second floor, and had it been any larger, it would have likely brought the entire building down.

All along the wall was graffiti, markers of paint and magic that had faded to near-oblivion over the years. They were still discernible as messages of encouragement, notes of thanks, words of cheer and apology and promise. Scattered along the foot of the wall were dozens of dull laminated cones and tarnished glass vases filled with dried and brittle sticks, all that remained of the bouquets that were left by mourners and well-wishers.

A second inscription, this one a gold plaque, was embedded into the wall at elbow-height. Like the first, it had been rendered illegible, something having scorched it black and melted the letters into slag.

The man didn't need the plaque. He knew this place. He had seen this in dreams, too. Dreams of fire and green light, of flying motorcycles and high, cruel laughter.

Stepping over the remains of long-dead flowers and broken glass containers, the man reached out his hand towards the iron gate, but stopped, sensing the enchantments that had been set upon it. Carefully feeling the slow swirl and turgid current of the fading magic, he plucked at it delicately with his fingers, and felt more than heard the protections fall.

With a push, the gate swung inward with a faint creak, and the man walked down the path to the front door.

* * *

"How dangerous do you think he iz going to be?"

"Our hypothesis about what he might have experienced in Azkaban was confirmed during the escape. You saw how he fought. How he moved. He jumped without any hesitation whatsoever. It is likely that we are dealing with the equivalent of a Grandmaster. A magic-capable Grandmaster. Depending on how much of his time he spent unconscious or in an altered state of mind, he may even have more experience than I do."

"Merde."

"Indeed. All the more reason to recover him before he is found. He is an asset that cannot be allowed to be taken by the enemy."

The brown robed man nodded, slid a mask over his face, and pulled up his hood. The other man did likewise.

"Let's do 'zis, then."

* * *

The ragged man stepped through the door frame, and made his way into the house. Dirt and leaves were scattered all through the entryway, and piles of snow had gathered beneath each of the broken windows. Faded and scarred paintings covered the walls, once lifelike and intelligent, now still and dead, the magic of the house having long-since leeched away. Picking his way through upturned and broken furniture, he could see the scars of the battle that had taken place. Scorch marks, seared carpet, melted stone, shattered hardwood. Powerful magic had occurred here, for he knew that it had been worked long before that which he had seen outside, and yet the remnants still burned brighter underneath his eyes.

He ignored it. He walked up to the fireplace in the sitting room and examined it. An enormous affair large enough for a grown man to stand upright in it, it was crafted from solid stone. A coat of arms stood proudly over the mantle, a symbol of the family that had once dwelled here. Swords crossed behind a shield emblazoned with a massive 'P', supported by twin lions roaring. It was framed by a pair of carved trees, their branches whorling and intertwining together, and the latin motto that crowned it was illegible, a stray spell the most likely culprit.

To look at the insignia, even closely, one would not have seen it. But if one was expecting it, it was not that hard to find. Nestled in the complex weavings of the gothic latticework of the trees above the 'P', there was a symbol that could be discerned.

The man looked at it harder, concentrating, and the symbol he knew was there grew bright, even as the rest of the coat of arms faded away.

Symbols within symbols. Secrets within secrets.

He reached out with his hand, and pushed on the insignia in that exact spot. There was a soft click, and the sound of stone against stone.

With the soft flapping of wings, the phoenix left his shoulders and flew over to perch on a tarnished hatstand in the corner. The man looked at his companion for a moment before nodding, and turning back.

Stepping into the cold, dusty fireplace, he placed his hand on the back wall and pushed. It swung smoothly open on silent hinges. Hunching slightly, he stepped on through into the darkness beyond.

* * *

A tall man with cloth stretched across the lower portion of his face squinted through the scope of his semi-automatic anti-personnel rifle. Through it, he saw a ragged form disappear into a distant house on the far side of an abandoned village. They had tracked the fugitive to the Somerset county of West Country after receiving a tip from local surveillance nets about an anomaly, and had quickly dispatched retrieval team.

"We've located the package. I repeat, we have located the package."

The radio crackled to life, the voice on the other end commanding and harsh. The masked soldier held his hand to his ear for a moment, then nodded.

"Understood. We'll bring it in."

He held up his left hand and made a circle in the air. The three dozen soldiers behind him loaded their guns. One of them pulled out a wand and began muttering, pointing it at the earth, erecting an Anti-Apparition field.

They spread out in a loose fan and began walking down the hill towards the village.

Unseen by them, two disillusioned figures followed from the trees.

* * *

You guys know the drill. Read and review, comments, questions, and criticism welcome.

A.N./

I wrote this entire chapter listening to a loop of the Assassin's Creed Revelations Theme Song, with lyrics. So if you'd like an appropriate soundtrack to listen to while reading, you know where to go.

Also, we don't actually know 'where' in West Country Godric's Hollow is located, but a lot of wizarding homes we know about are or were in Devon (Diggory, Fawcett, Lovegood, Weasley, Hagrid), so I deliberately chose another county to try and indicate that the Hollow is far away from most other settlements. Somerset is mostly rural farmland and sparsely populated, so I felt that it was a good choice for the Hollow.


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